Your Name
by Hannaadi88
Summary: One day, some place, one of the prisoners fell in love with a man outside the fence. A love that ended in death.
1. Prologue

**Your Name**

~0~**  
**

_Prologue_

_

* * *

_

Arthur Kirkland fell to the metal ground, blood smearing his face. He could hear the laughter from behind him, mocking him cruelly. He could taste the terror on his lips, fused with the bitter tang of his vital fluid. A fluid that had been poured carelessly too long in that room.

There was nothing he could do- just bear it until the end. The cold, suffocating end. Dozens of others circled him, all just as desperate as he for salvation, freedom. Freedom from the torture they have been going through for months, and the horror they experienced. The horror of watching their loved ones enter a building with the thin cloud of smoke always hovering over it; never to come back alive.

The very building that they have now entered.

The Englishman heard the doors shutting with a sharp bang. He had only a couple of seconds left. But through the thick mass of bodies crowded together, a familiar face seemed to shine through. The ice-blue eyes pierced through his body, the shoulder length blond hair sending shivers down his spine. Arthur reached out to pull the face closer, but as his fingers grazed the air, the face disappeared. A mirage.

He knew to whom that face belonged to. The face of the person that was the reason why Arthur was to brace death in but a few moments. But he wanted nothing more than see that person once more. To hear his velveteen voice surround him. To feel those arms around him. To feel the touch of his lips on his own.

But that was not to be. That person was lost to him forever- and now, he shall have to bare the consequences. For caring about him. For loving him.

_Francis. . ._

_

* * *

_

_Hanna Chan's Blah- Blah Corner;_

_Hello everyone! This is a project I have been waiting a long time to start, and am super excited to go through it! *beams* I know that I have many things left unfinished (Narcissus Noir and Ask Francis for example), but I have this feeling that this one will be complete. I dunno- I just feel it =W=_

_Anyway, to those that are wondering- oui, this is somewhat based on the song 'Prisoner' and 'Paper Planes' by Vocaloid. But there is a different plot, mind you *nods* So far we know that Arthur is a prisoner in a camp. A death camp. And that he is about to die (sorry Iggy! TT^TT). No, I am not making him a Jew if that is what you are thinking. He is gay, and the Nazis weren't so fond of gays ^^'_

_So. . ._

_Please review and tell me what you think so far. Are you interested to see how this comes about? ;3 _

_-Hanna  
_


	2. First

**Your Name**

~0~

_Chapter 1_

* * *

"Bloody hell. . ."

Walking through the elegant hallway, Arthur was overwhelmed by the richness of it all. The marble staircases went well with the crème- colored walls, the antiques complimenting the artwork. He paused next to a large painting that hung in the center of the room, studying curiously the details.

It was a portrait. A portrait of a big, strong man, it seemed. His blond hair was cut short, his piercing blue eyes cold as ice. His uniform was neat and ironed. An impressive man. Of course, paintings had a tendency to lie (especially if the painter was paid well), but Arthur had the same intimidating feeling he had experienced while meeting the portrayed man in the flesh. The same way he was feeling now, simply studying a mere painting.

The Englishman was awoken from his daze by the sound of footsteps making their way down the stairs. A pause. Arthur looked up to find a young man of about his own age peering down at him from the middle of the staircase, eyebrows knotted in confusion. He looked exactly like the man in the painting, the Brit noted. But for some reason, aside from the long hair, there was something about his face that differed him from- whom Arthur supposed was- his father. Something that he couldn't put his finger on.

"_Qui êtes-vous_?" The voice boomed at him in French. When he received no response, he switched to a heavily accented German. When both languages seemingly failed to help him communicate with the stranger, the Frenchman finally addressed Arthur in a way he could understand. "Who are you?"

Remembering where he was and what position he was in, Arthur straightened and lowered his eyes. "Arthur Kirkland, sir." He informed the other, eyebrow twitching at the sound of both French and German. The two languages he hated the most.

Hearing Arthur's name and British accent, the Frenchman wrinkled his nose and continued down the steps, muttering '_Britannique_' under his breath as he passed the Englishman without so much of a nod. In those first few moments, they seemed to have formed an enmity on the sole reason of their nationality. Though anger pulsed through his veins, Arthur couldn't get rid of the feeling that he would have rather not making a foe on his first day.

He was to work there, after all.

He climbed up the stairs a few moments later, carrying his bag, within it a newspaper clip. It was there, in that small issue, that Arthur had found the wanted add. He had been desperate, a fugitive in an enemy country, when he read the article and applied. He hadn't been sure what 'personal service' meant, but he was ready to do just about anything. Where terror and hunger ruled, one could not be picky. Beggars can't be choosers.

The Englishman hesitantly entered a small room that was previously set up for him. Placing his belongings neatly in each object's respective place, he lay down on the bed- decent, compared to some he had slept in previously- and sighed. When he had moved to Germany a while back, he had thought that he would make enough money to send back home and help feed his siblings. But ever since the war started, he hadn't been able to find any jobs. No one wanted to employ an enemy. It was nothing short of a miracle that someone hadn't reported him yet. Arthur had taken a big risk by applying for his current occupation, working in a Nazi household. Then again, he had little other choice.

A personal assistant was what he was now. He scoffed at the idea- what pampered brat needed someone to tie their own shoes for them? But because of that spoiled kid, the Brit had a job, so he wasn't complaining. It amused him that the son of a Nazi general-

_His son?_

It dawned to him. That young French he had encountered on the stairs. . . who looked identical to the general, his father. . . Could it be? Would he have to do whatever that rude French twat told him to do? Arthur wished he could hope for the other to have younger siblings, but his father had already mentioned his 'one and only' son. Brilliant.

Groaning and stuffing his face into the pillow, Arthur couldn't imagine it any worse.

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_Well. Unlike my previous stories, this will have many and short chapters rather than long and few ones. Long and many? No way. I'm not that good yet ^^'_

_Anyway, I would like to dedicate this chapter to icy-piyo21. I really don't get to talk to her much, and I want to try to make it up as bit, you know? I miss you, Gabby D:_

_*looks down shyly* Uhm, if you don't mind. . . can you take 2 minutes and click on the 'review' button down there? *points* It doesn't take much effort for you, and I would really appreciate it! :D_

_-Hanna_


	3. Second

**Your Name**

~O~

_Chapter 2_

* * *

Since then a couple of months had past. And yet, with each long day, Arthur's resentment towards his new master only grew. Was it the haughty aura the Frenchman surrounded himself in that put him off, or was it his dramatics that made the Brit uncomfortable? Whatever it was, it did not arouse any fond feelings within him. And apparently, the sentiment was mutual.

Waiting outside the kitchen door, the 'personal assistant' scowled. He had been ordered to serve the family tea a couple of evenings ago, and though he had brewed a perfectly nice pot of it, it did not seem to suit their pallet. Ever since he had been forbidden to enter the kitchen unauthorized, forced to wait for the cook (a professional from Paris with the same obnoxious accent as Francis had, yet a nice personality. In spite of her being French, that is) to whip up whatever Arthur was sent for and then serve it after it was handed to him.

After a few minutes or so, a dirty-blond head peeked out of the double doors, grinning as its owner spotted the Englishman. Cecile- the young chef- walked out, a silver tray with steaming bowls of soup on it. With a smile- and was that a blush?- she handed Arthur the platter. "Be careful- it iz hot." She warned, still supporting the dish. It touched him that although English was not her mother tongue, she attempted at it for him.

Being the gentleman that he was, the Englishman grinned and brushed off the warning, accepting the load. With a brief 'thank you' he was off, carrying it to the elaborate dining room.

He stepped inside, once again taking in the elegant surroundings he was not used to. The carved wooden table, the glittering chandelier… As much as he hated the owners, he couldn't deny the fact that they had quite a sense of fashion. A bit on the showy side, perhaps, but elegant nevertheless. The pair that was seated in the middle of the room was just as pretty as their surroundings. But appearances are deceiving, as the Englishman quickly learned. Master and son shared the disturbing combination that of an inflated ego and materialism. Two things that Arthur detested the most.

Francis and his father, General Bonnefoy, were always together. The moment the General returned home from work or a mission, he would spend his time off with his son, reveling in the other's achievements and accomplishments. Be it long and detailed reports or delicious dishes, it seemed that the young Frenchman succeeded in all that he did. It was as if he had a golden touch, a gift of unconditioned skill.

And boy, did he know it.

But Arthur found himself secretly admiring his young master's ability to acknowledge his own capability. It took a lot for the Brit to compliment himself on something, shame and modesty overshadowing satisfaction. But Francis, it seemed, had no trouble at all with it. A thing that the other had, and he lacked. Just like most everything else. Except for one thing.

Francis did not have a mother.

At first, the young Englishman assumed that the lady of the house was always out, never having either time or will to meet with the new servant. To his amazement, he was shushed when he asked after her name. The mere mentioning of her was taboo. It was only until recently that he had found out that the reason no one talked about her was not since she was dead, as he had thought. No, it was worse than that- she had ran away.

No one knew with whom, no one knew where. Some guessed she missed her natal family so much that she returned to France one night without telling a soul, less they stand in her way. Others said that she was quite taken with the milkman and left her home and family in favor of him. Arthur had a hard time believing that, though, as it was too cliché. He wouldn't be surprised if someone suggested that Francis was the son of that nameless man.

Perhaps his mother's absence made Francis the way he was. Overconfident and arrogant. Extremely close with his father. Feminine.

_Scratch that, _Arthur blushed at the thought, studying the small family from the doorway secretly; _there is nothing gentle and kind about him to make that brat 'feminine'. Weak and harmless as a frog, more like it. Never known a hard day's work. _

Yes, he hated Francis with a passion. But he admired him as well, only adding to his dislike.

"_Uy_, _sentimos_…"

A flash of heat splashed across Arthur's chest as a sudden pressure was applied to him from behind, sending the unaware Englishman flying forward. Steaming soup burned his skin and shards of broken china cut his hands as well as littering the floor. The idle buzz of chatter inside the room stopped, Frenchmen and servants alike turning around to see the fallen Brit, sprawled across the floor.

Cheeks reddening in embarrassments, the young Briton stumbled onto his knees, collecting bits and pieces of the broken dishes, bowing his head repeatedly and asking forgiveness. He had to bite his tongue to swallow his cries, his chest badly burnt. All he could feel were the eyes gazing at him, staring and taking in every move of his.

The silence was broken a few moments later when he heard someone stifle a chuckle from behind him. Loud footsteps came to a halt in front of him after a short walk around Arthur's crouched figure.

Lifting his head, the Englishman came across bright green eyes- not too different from his own, perhaps a shade lighter- staring down at him. Dark brown locks framed his tanned face, his complexion that of a Mediterranean color. The Hispanic origin was all but apparent. Antonio.

Antonio, a fellow servant in the Bonnefoy household from Spain, never did like Arthur. It was the moment they set eyes on each other that he decided to dislike the Anglo, it seemed. And Arthur, to be completely honest, didn't mind it much. The bastard was high ranking in the master's affections, therefore no reason to care for him over the necessary. It was simply his bad luck that the other had a more passionate hatred for him, still unexplained by the man himself. But whatever it was, he made the Englishman suffer for it.

The young Spaniard was smirking down at him, green eyes twinkling in amusement. "_Das war ein Rückgang gibt, amigo. __Brauchen Sie eine Hand_?" Antonio mocked loudly in heavily accented German, extending his arm towards the Englishman. Arthur simply glared at him and held back a few of his favorite curses, fully aware of the audience he had. Picking up the remaining shards, he stood up, wincing slightly as his upper half was forced to move. He really should check out his burns later on.

Arthur shot one last glare at Antonio, internally swearing to get his revenge- it was _obviously _the other who had pushed him- and knowing fully well he would not get such as thing as the other was too high for him to reach up to and pull down. The shards of glass and china on the tray, he turned around and all but ran out of the room.

The silence continued, but a few moments later as everyone came back to their senses and went back to their forgotten conversations, some of which the subject shifted to the new and awkward British servant. The father resumed his speech about the various uses of war ships and called for a cup of tea, his son remaining silent. Francis's gaze remained stationary on the doorway where Arthur had made his quick exit moments ago, a strange expression on his face.

Were those tears?

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_Yes, I am well aware of the fact that this is helplessly late ;A; I never counted on school being so hard *rants to wall endlessly* But I do try my best, mind you. I have everything planned out, and I- and I-... And I hope I'm not going to be too lazy to continue this ^^' Every review, even negative, serves as motivation to continue, so if you want to see another chapter (which I hope you do), please just take a moment and leave a comment. Any comment :D_

_Now, about this chapter. This is a filler chapter that serves to explain deeper the dynamics of this twisted, twisted household. So excuse me if it's boring =3= Action will come soon, do not fret! 3 Antonio is evil since I decided he would be. And you can't do anything about it ;P Besides, Spain wasn't exactly on the Allies' side during the war, so... yeah._

_I hope you guys like this! Now, a special shutout to special people~_

_**Darandomninja**- Thank you, cher =W= It's nice to know that I am helping to spread the love of FrUk XDD_

_**englandlove94**- *nods* Francis and his family are in Germany, hence the initial reaction of using German when he first sees Arthur. And I hope you like this chapter as much as the last ':D_

_**Dancing Flurry**- You did? Well then, I hope to not disappoint you with my changing styles, depending on my mood ^^' I hope you keep on reading- you may find some very interesting things in the future ;3_

_**icy-piyo21**- *hugs* No problem, cheri. You always inspire me to write, so why not try to return the favor? XD I hope to talk to you again soon!_

_**murasakiirothoughts**- *salutes* Will do, ma'am! :DD_

_**Twizardck**- XDD Here you go, then. I hope this will turn out to your liking._

_**Agerevaluation**- *bows* And continue I did. And I hope I will... OTL Thank you, at any rate =W=_

_Translations_

"_Uy, sentimos_"= Spanish. Antonio is saying 'Oops, sorry.'

_"Das war ein Rückgang gibt, amigo. __Brauchen Sie eine Hand"= _German, with a bit of Spanish. He is saying 'that was quite a fall you had, friend. Need a hand?'_  
_


	4. Troisième

**Your Name**

~0~

_Chapter 3_

* * *

Francis crossed a leg over another calmly, raising a cup delicately to his lips. Closed eyes opened slightly and said lips pressed tightly against each other, the unexpected bitter taste raiding his taste buds. From when was Rosehip tea bitter? Blue eyes scanned the room critically, finding no comfort in the cream-colored walls or the awe inspiring 'Madonna and child', which usually gave him a sense of warmth; affection. Imagine that. A mother- _the _mother holding her child with such carefulness, tenderness. Was such a thing possible?

The blues and shades of read sent him a feeling of tranquility whenever he gazed at it, an activity he found himself engaged in more often than not. Once a day, every day, the young Frenchman would enter this antechamber after his lessons and retire to sipping one drink or the other while reflecting. It was usually late afternoon, when through the open windows one could see the clouds floating lazily on a warm breeze. So light, they looked; so free. Free to float around, free to be whatever shape or color they fancied.

Francis, on the other hand, was their immediate opposite. Down to earth, serious, bound to his studies, his father, country…fate.

A sudden shift in the room diverted his attention as he tore his gaze away from the portrait, irritation clouding his features. No one was supposed to be here, aside from him. Everyone knew that. This was the only time and place where he could be completely alone. Who dared intrude?

Turning his head to the side, he noticed a slim figure standing near the doorway, gazing at him with dulled green eyes. Even from here, he could see the hate in those pair of orbs. He should have known earlier- only Arthur would dare spy on him at a moment like this. Said man seemed to be aware of the sudden gaze on him and cheeks went ablaze with mortification of being found out. Sighing tiredly, Francis indicated with his finger for the other to approach him.

The Englishman seemed to consider this order for a moment before giving in and striding towards his master, scowling all the while. Stopping right in front of the Frenchman, he crossed his arms across his chest, looking down at the sitting figure. "_Ja_?"

Francis frowned. "That is not the way you speak to your betters, _garcon_." He criticized the other in English. From prior experience, speaking to another in their native tongue proved to have better impact than using his French of German. Arthur looked taken aback, not sure how to respond to that.

It had been a long time since he had heard English.

"How would you know how to speak to one's betters, then?" He finally replied, bitterness more than apparent in his voice. "It is not like you ever had been in my situation-" The Englishman faltered, eyes widening as he hastily placed his hand over his mouth. He had said too much.

The elder of the two studied the other, a brow lifted in interest. "_Dieu merci_ I never had, nor will be in your shoes, Arthur. Being British itself is enough of a curse, is it not?" Francis chuckled darkly and turned his gaze to the window.

Arthur felt his throat tighten with warm tears, stopping him from speaking. Had he really expected sympathy from someone…someone like Francis? The concept itself was an oxymoron. He was a fool to even imagine such a thing, a bigger one yet to loose himself to his feelings.

He was detached from all that he had ever known or loved, thrown into a foreign world he neither liked or cared for. He hated it. And, on top of it all, the stress of a new job that made him swallow his pride time after time did nothing positive to his mood. He was lucky that he had yet to loose his job.

Choosing not to deal with it- he _couldn't _deal with it- Arthur fled from the room. Damn his curiosity. He never should have tried to find out what the Frenchman did in that room.

Francis looked after the fleeing Brit with a cold expression, not making any effort to stop him. The other had made a fool out of himself, and was paying for it. Why should he bother calling after him? True, Arthur piqued his interest… But not to such extent that he would actually feel sorry for him. He was a servant, all in all. Nothing worth wasting emotions on. He had enough going on.

With a deep sigh, the Frenchman lifted his cup again and sipped at the tea that had already gone cold.

It was still bitter.

~0~

It was a long, cold and lonely ride. Papa had promised he would come with him this time, but he had to stay late at the office. Instead, Francis found himself riding alone in the dark automobile, save for the silent driver. The dampness seeped through his coat, through his clothes and into his bones. All the riches in the world couldn't buy him the warmth he needed.

At last, the constant clicking of the wheels stopped. They had reached their destination. Francis silently opened the door to the car and stepped out, leaving it open for the driver to close after him. They both knew the drill- the other was to wait until Francis was done and drive him back. There was nothing to say.

He walked towards a stone building and knocked on the door. An old man opened it for him and bowed, murmuring a '_Guten abend junge meister.' _He led Francis through an all too familiar hall full of scientific drawings and graphs. After a few minutes he stopped in front of a wooden door, knocked softly and bowed again at the Frenchman, leaving him.

Someone called in from inside the room, indicating that it was all right for him to enter. Francis opened the door and walked in, closing it behind him. A man in his mid forties, mostly bald with gray eyes and glasses, welcomed him inside and indicated that he should sit in a chair next to his desk. Francis smiled graciously and sat down. It was his public smile- one he reserved for those who reveled in his approval. The man, his doctor, smiled back and walked back around his desk and settled into his own chair.

Clearing his throat, the other started leafing through a bundle of papers and inquired in a bored voice after Francis's health, mood and appetite. Questions to which Francis replied with an equally dull voice, wishing with all his heart that he were someplace else.

It scared him, doctors. Ever since _mère_ had been diagnosed with a deadly illness, Francis despised the men who leered over her body, giving their advice and prodding her skin. Ever since they had suggested she go on a vacation to the country… from which she had yet to return. He was ten when she left.

No one, not even his father, knew what happened to her. She simply vanished into thin air. It seemed impossible- how could someone as famous as his mother disappear so easily? Didn't anyone care? If something like that were to happen to him, would he be quickly forgotten as she was?

The doctor's request to examine his body and check his blood pressure stirred Francis out of his thoughts. He cooperated, removing his shirt and not resisting when a band was strapped against his arm, applying pressure on it. Nor when the other pricked him with a needle, claiming he needed a sample. He seemed worried. But Francis paid no heed to the man's concern, nor to his ramblings. His eyes were fixed on the photograph of the _Führer_ that was hanging above the doctor's desk. Sharp eyes looked back at him.

The man truly was amazing. He was going to change the world into something better, just. A world in which people did not lie or hurt others. A world in which only those deemed worthy lived in.

Paradise.

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_So, stoic!Francis much? ^^ This is going to be a long fic, so don't worry- he'll change by the end ;P The last part was a reminder that this is taking place in the beginning of WW2, so don't you forget it! The war is a very important aspect to the story..._

_Did you like this? At all? If so, please review! Let me know you are there :D_

_-Hanna_


	5. Quatrième

**Your Name**

~o~

_Chapter 4_

* * *

It was beautiful, really. A welcome change of weather, differing from the constant rain that had been poring endlessly for weeks. The sun had decided to shine for a day, sending warm rays splaying over the teak-wood coffee table, and filling the dreary room with light. The light was strong in the living room, as if trying to make up for its long absence. Relaxing on one of the sleek couches, Francis gazed dully out of the window. Said window, a huge pane of glass that covered most of the wall in front of the young French, looked out to the elaborate garden of the Bonnefoy mansion.

As suiting for a wealthy landowner, the garden was full of green and vegetation. Flowers imported from all over Europe ended up in their garden, creating an appealing image that of the Garden of Eden itself. The garden was never empty or gray- there was bond to be at least half a dozen types and species of flowers in bloom at the current season. Though there really was no denying that spring was a glorious- the most beautiful by far- season of the year. The whole garden would come to life, including the orange trees the master of the house enjoyed the most.

What caught Francis's attention, though, were the roses. Roses usually bloomed in late April, but there they were- red, white, pink and yellow petals opened fully, basking in the plentiful sunlight. It was a stimulating sight, but a terrible waste. The next day, it will probably rain hard again, and tear the delicate flowers to shreds. They bloomed too early, deceived by the promise of sunshine. By the same time tomorrow, they'll be gone.

A sketchpad in his hands, Francis had decided to capture the same fragile beauty. Even if said beauty was meant to shrivel and fade away, if traced by talented fingers, it would last for eternity. It was the least he could do for such innocent and helpless creations.

Starting with basic and thin lines, the Frenchman began tracing the outlines of a petal when a solid object blocked the light from the window. Lifting his gaze from his sketchpad, blue eyes widened at the audacity of the scene in front of him- a hesitant Arthur Kirkland had settled himself beside the rosebush, laying his head on the soft ground. He closed his eyes, too focused on his own little world to notice anyone that may have been looking at him. A pale arm lifted itself and plucked one of the largest blooms- the one Francis had been drawing.

Francis stared at the Englishman in disbelief. Why on earth was someone like the Brit basking in the sun (and obviously enjoying it immensely. It was as if he had never seen sunlight before)? Didn't he have anything better to do? But most important of all- he had ruined everything. The Frenchman's drawing was now meaningless when his model was gone, clutched in Arthur's palm.

About to stand up and yell to the servant to leave, Francis froze. In midair, the view he got was different than before- the angle was completely different. The calm and peaceful expression on Arthur's face, the slight pursing of the lips…The splayed golden locks and massive eyebrows not frowning for once… It all came to place.

And the rose. Clutched to his heart, amid the rosebushes, the scene reminded Francis very much that of a funeral. The perfect deathbed, surrounded by growth and renewal. Breathtaking, in both meaning and actual graphics. If Francis would have been able to capture the Englishman's expression on paper… That would be the project of his life. Really, Arthur didn't look that bad when he wasn't angry or talking. Silence suited him tremendously.

Slowly picking up his pad, Francis quietly began drawing the most basic outlines before heading out of the room as silently as he could, less he stir the- apparently- sleeping Brit.

He climbed up the stairs in a frenzy once well out of earshot and hurried into his room, letting his muse possess him as he locked the door and raced to his canvas. Then, ripping off a previous project, he crumpled it into a ball and took in the fresh piece of paper, studying it thoroughly before carefully beginning to copy onto it his outlines he had managed to draw.

The rest he would have to do from memory. And to be frank, he wasn't so sorry to have to recall again and again Arthur's sleeping face, amongst the green and red.

-x-

No one knew what had possessed the young master. No one visited him in his room, as he wished, without him venturing out of his four walls once as well. Complete solitude was what he required, now that he had found 'his muse'. With a built in bathroom and kitchenette, there really was no reason for him to. Although it wasn't the healthiest practice, no one dared to contradict him. When asked, master Bonnefoy simply beamed and ruled that no one should enter the room unless called for. Francis, his beloved heir, should not be bothered while expressing his talent.

Arthur scoffed at the last proclamation, rolling his eyes at the closed door as he passed it with a pile of laundry. He was supposed to deliver it to the young Frenchman, but as he wasn't to be disturbed… Arthur wasn't sure what to do. He could always simply leave the stack of clothes next to the door, but the housekeeper for letting the linens get dirty would chastise him.

In short, he now found himself staring at the door, baffled.

_Why_, the Englishman brooded, _does everyone give into the prat's every wish? No wonder he's a spoiled little brat. _It was true- he would bet his life savings that Francis Bonnefoy never restrained an urge or a need. No one denied him a thing, the poor soul. It would be a wonder if he knew how to fend for himself when the time came.

The results were his childish bursts of emotions and moods. Locking himself up in his room for days on end was the least of them. And yet, the minority of the affair did not help Arthur decide what he was supposed to do.

He was given instructions to place the clean clothes in the Frenchman's room. And so he will.

The Englishman knocked briskly on the door, waiting for an answer. When none came, he tried again, a little more impatient now. Still, no answer. Furrowing his brows, Arthur hesitantly tried turning the handle and seeing what was wrong- either the kid was dead or he had a severe lack of social courtesy. Of course, the door wouldn't be open, but it was worth a shot.

…Only, it _was _open. Startled, Arthur almost tripped in and dropped the pile of clothes balanced carefully in the other hand as the door easily opened. Recovering both from the momentary shock and his balance as well, the Englishman timidly stepped inside and closed the door.

The room, just like every other one in the mansion, was breathtaking. Arthur had never been in there before, though, so the elaborate-ness of it all awed him just as much as when he walked in through the mansion doors for the first time. Paintings and sketches, all with Francis's signature, adorned the walls. Exquisite. He may be pampered and spoiled rotten, but Arthur couldn't deny that he was a born artist.

The furniture sported a Victorian theme to it, surprisingly enough. The classic king sized bed with drapes, wooden desk and couches scattered around the huge room. The rumored kitchenette and a small dining area on one side took a good amount of space, and the joint bathroom-dressing room took up the other half equally. All in all, a well planned room.

In the middle of it all, was a large easel with a veiled canvas resting on top of it. Arthur's curiosity peaked- was that the reason for the whole propaganda? Under that veil, hid the creation the occupied the Frenchman's mind completely?

Francis, Arthur remembered with a jolt. Where was Francis?

A sudden gush of water from the bathroom area answered his question and explained the lack of answer to his knocking. Not sure if to be relived or scared about being found in a room he was forbidden from entering, Arthur tensed, clutching onto the clothes. _The clothes. _

Mentally slapping himself, the Englishman hurried to the bed and was about to place the pile on top of it and make a hasty exit before Francis spotted him. But said man caught him in mid action, the two of them freezing once they set eyes on each other.

Shutting his eyes, Arthur tensed, not sure what to do or what to say. The truth? He wouldn't be excused. A lie? He was a terrible liar. Opening his eyes to blurt out whatever he could think of on the spur of the moment, the Englishman was startled to see a pair of Sapphire eyes staring into his intently, studying his face from a not so far distance. When had the other managed to get so close?

Francis bit his lip and squinted, as if trying to figure something out. It was all Arthur could do but simply stand there uncomfortably, some sense telling him that if he moved, he would surely be yelled at. The Frenchman gave up after a few moments though and sighed in frustration. Startled, Arthur took a step back, not sure what he did wrong. With a firm object pressing on the back of his knees, the Brit realized that he had backed into the bed. Between the furniture and the Frenchman, he was trapped.

Eyes widening, Francis blinked a few times before stepping forward. "Lay down," he ordered the Englishman, and idea sparking in his mind. Arthur's eyes widened as well- only in fear rather than excitement.

What the bloody hell was going one?

But he wasn't in any position to disobey. Grimacing, he placed the pile of clothes on the bed beside him and then hesitantly lowered himself onto the mattress, cheeks burning red and body cramping in fear. What was Francis planning on doing to him?

"Close your eyes."

Arthur obediently shut his eyes as he felt a shifting weight on top of him. Worry wrinkles formed in his brow, and his eyes were shut so tight that he could see faint shapes and colors dancing in front of his eyes. He had the strange feeling one got when someone was looking at you. Just this time, the intense stare of the Frenchman really unnerved him.

"W-what are you-?" he was cut off by a huff and a forceful finger placed on his lips, shushing him. Startled, Arthur opened his eyes to see what exactly was happening- his approximating of the Frenchman's distance was obviously completely off.

And indeed, so it was. Upon opening his eyes, the Englishman realized just how close they were. Francis was supporting himself right on top of him, gazing down with such an intense gaze that Arthur wanted to push him away. But knowing that was not an option- no one cared if someone sexually harassed an enemy of the state- he simply had to endure it, cheeks ablaze. As Francis loomed closer and closer, Arthur tried to edge further away, trying to escape to studying eyes.

But then, the feeling was gone. Arthur suddenly felt a weight shift, and the extra body weight had disappeared. Blinking, the Englishman straightened up in bed. Francis was long gone, a rustle from the kitchen indicating his position.

The whole experience was bizarre. Why did Francis want to see him on his back, eyes closed? And then suddenly loose interest?

Not waiting to be dismissed, the Englishman stood up and rushed towards the door, not daring to look behind him, less he be called back.

Artists. Better stay away from them.

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_First thing's first- I'm so sorry for the lateness of this chapter XP Shoot me now, will you? Just with Christmas and all of the presents and exchanged, I kind of lost track. It's a shame too, since be my original planning, the Christmas chapter was supposed to be on Christmas... and we're still a long way from it *sigh* My apologies, once again._

_And at first look, this chapter doesn't even sound or seem that significant, right? Well, wrong. Cookies to those who can find the ironic reasoning in Francis's mind with his flowers (hint: Contradicting Nazi beliefs, which he supports dearly) and to those that can understand why the hell Francis was acting all odd and creepy with Arthur XD Besides... I waste not a word. Everything is important =w=_

_If I'm already writing, then I may as well thank some awesome reviewers who have been keeping track, or leaving awesome reviews~! :D_

_**englandlove94- **Oui, Francis knows German as his Papa had German origins, as well as they live in Germany ^^ I hope you enjoy the update!_

_**Agerevalution**- I'm glad you're glad that I updated XD How was this?_

_**nickypooh-** Thank you for the Spanish correction! Relying on Google Translate does have its cons, I suppose =3=' I'm too lazy to change it, though XP_

_**Ceri Siracha**- Well, we have a long way to go before we find out how and why the hell the story ends in a death camp, but I hope you'll enjoy the journey :)_

_**Mariona- **:DD I'm so glad you read this. Are you the one that keeps posting fanmixes on the LJ FrUk community? I absolutely adore them! *^*_

_CisLovesMat- o.o Forget you, the ultimate FrUk writer? Are you kidding? *bows* I'm so sorry I never got to that video I promised you... I started it, but then I hated how it was coming out, and then I just ditched it *has a habit of doing so* T^T' Forgive me? In any case, thank you for the review! Being Jewish, it's kinda hard for me to write Francis like that, but if you can read him, then I'll do my best to get into his mind! :D It goes with the story, in any case. _

_There! Those awesome people deserve cookies just for being awesome! =w= _

_-Hanna_


	6. Fifth

**Your Name**

~o~

_Chapter 5_

* * *

Something was wrong with Francis, Arthur came to the conclusion. For days on end, the man confined himself to his room, only to emerge one day later after their curious encounter and go about par usual, as if nothing had happened. His father, relieved to see his son sane again, the Englishman presumed, said nothing of the event. Strangely enough, the staff wouldn't even gossip about it.

Perhaps the one who had something wrong with him was Arthur after all, the Englishman found himself brooding after dinner, going about with the last of his chores.

In contrast to what he had been hired for, Arthur found himself doing more odd jobs and tasks here and there than 'assisting' Francis, with what he was not even sure. No one seemed to mind it, either. The Englishman favored the turn of events as his own personal miracle, but he didn't get his hopes up. No matter how much he tried, he wouldn't be able to avoid the young master forever.

Finally, the day was done. He had a few precious hours for himself. Perhaps he would sneak into the kitchen and talk to Cecile for a bit. On the other hand, a nice walk in the garden and an intake of fresh air after a long day indoors would be nice.

Pondering his options, the Englishman headed towards the door; will wavering toward his second idea. His escape from reality was ruined seconds later when a sharp, curt knock on the door echoed through the empty room. Cursing under his breath, Arthur looked around, wondering if anyone would notice him if he ran upstairs instead of opening the door. Oh, how Antonio would love to list his faults to the head of staff- he relished in any little detail and fumble the Englishman made.

No one was around. Grinning, Arthur turned to rush upstairs- really, he wasn't in the mood for socializing- when the knock was heard again, louder and more impatient. Huffing to himself, the Englishman approached the front door and took a deep breath before opening the door, flashing a fake and quite obviously forced smile.

"_Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?_"

A small unit of uniform clad men stood behind the door, frowning. Whom Arthur figured was the leader of the group, the tallest of the lot, considered him before brushing past him, signaling to his men to follow. The Englishman, pushed roughly against the doorframe, stared dumbstruck at the men. Those uniforms… he knew who they were. They had finally found him. They were going to take him away. "_W-was wollen Sie?_" he managed weakly in his heavily accented German, paling quickly.

Ignoring him, the head of the brigade issued a curt order to one of his men, who nodded curtly and headed out of the room, followed by another soldier. Their finely pressed red bands on their arms, sporting a swastika, contrasted painfully with the pure whiteness of the French parlor. Blood red splashed on the grim black uniforms. Was it his blood next to be spilled, Arthur wondered, back still plastered to the wood in frozen horror. Was it him whom the reaper was to visit soon?

The Gestapo. A dogcatcher for all they considered mutts. Half-breeds, ones who didn't match the Arian purity such as they believed all true Germans possessed. Arthur, being English, was a prime candidate. And indeed there they were- literally at his doorstep and already past it- ready to take him away to _that _place. The one no one knows exactly about, but from which no one returned.

No one.

Knees weak, Arthur stumbled mutely as one of the soldiers shouted at him to step forward and line up with the other servants, rallied up by the other man who had been sent to gather them up. The maid, the butler and the gardener… they were all there, backs pressed to the wall, wide-eyed and trembling. Even Antonio, tanned complexion paled slightly, stood with the rest, eyes wide and doubting.

Pushed roughly against Arthur, Cecile- the cook- was shivering with fright, awkwardness nonexistent. How could they worry about social formalities, when their peaceful bubble was protruded violently? She clung to the Englishman's shirt tightly; burying her face in the starched cloth and mumbling muffled words in French.

With the shivering girl pleading for support and protection, Arthur realized that he wasn't in any position to be scared himself. He had no right. He had Cecile to reassure, after all, and being a gentleman he would do his best, even though he had every reason to fear as well. Nevertheless, he had to be strong. Hesitantly, he wrapped an arm around the other's trembling form, another stroking her hair soothingly.

Once the whole staff was lined up, the commander paced in front of them, studying each one with a scorching gaze. "_Dies ist eine geplante Suchaktion nach Feinden des Staates_," he stated his business shortly, nodding as he spoke, _"und nichts anderes. Diejenigen, die dem Staat treu ergeben sind, haben nichts zu befürchten._"

He continued to pace, considering each one before spotting the distressed Frenchwoman. He indicated in her direction with a sharp nod to the nearest soldier, who saluted and turned to the girl.

Any illusion of calm Arthur had tried to create was broken quickly when Cecile was pulled away viciously from his arms, forced to step forward by a grab of the elbow. _"Du, Miststück!_" the uniformed devil barked, watching with evident pleasure how the girl cowered in his clutch. Power corrupts, and the hunger for it transforms even the best of people into inhumane beasts.

Eyes narrowing in anger, Arthur glared at the soldier, his own hand raised on instinct- ready to punch the other for exhibiting his forcefulness on an innocent girl. His teeth bared, anger boiling in the pit of his abdomen at the general injustice. But a split second later, already in position to strike, he realized what he was doing. Freezing in mid action, his eyes darted quickly to meet the soldier's ice-blue orbs, a frightened expression replacing his enraged one. He should have known better than to threaten a soldier. What was the man going to do?

Silence. The soldier's stoic mask wavered as a wide smirk spread across his face. "_Willst du mich etwa schlagen?_" he taunted the Englishman, a sneer in his voice. Arthur felt his cheeks redden as all eyes were on him, the weight of their stares weighing heavily on his back. He chose to remain silent, biting back a sharp retort. All he needed now was to grab more unnecessary attention to himself than he already had.

But the soldier wasn't about to give up so soon. "_Warum tust du mir nicht weh? Nicht stark genug?_" he paused, looking at his commander. When the other showed no objection, the soldier turned back to Arthur with a sly grin and stepped forward. The Englishman instinctively stepped back, but found himself blocked by the wall.

Smirking, the German closed the gap between them and with one swift movement held the other by the collar, legs dangling a few centimeters from the ground. Looking Arthur in the eye, he expected to find fear. Apparently, there wasn't enough to satisfy the soldier, who narrowed his eyes and slammed the other against the wall hard enough to bruise him. Letting out a pained gasp, Arthur shut his eyes tightly to hold the tears in.

He wouldn't give the other the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

But said satisfaction was what the soldier was looking for. He couldn't hurt Arthur more than he already had physically without a valid reason, but the best way to wound a foe was to hurt him in a sensitive spot. His Achilles heel.

It came to him. Leaning forward, a breath's distance away from Arthur's face, he waited until the other would open his eyes. When the Englishman failed to do so, the soldier's grip tightened around the collar and whispered harshly, "_du weißt, dass das Mädchen nicht sterben muss. Es gibt viele Dinge, die sie für uns tun könnte ... wenn du verstehst, was ich meine_."

A pregnant pause, muscles tensing. It was as if everyone in the rood held their breath, wanting to see what the Englishman would do- what he would _dare _to do. Said man's breath had turned rigid from the pressure applied to his shirt, practically strangling him.

And then a moment later, there he was, standing on both feet and panting heavily, fist raised, with the soldier staggering backwards, palm nursing an injured cheek. Not for long, though- the whole unit, backing their mate, gathered around the Englishman in a semi-circle, pistols raised and aimed at him, ready to shoot.

"_Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici?_"

The whole room turned to the voice coming from the stairs, realizing that the French had come from the slim figure with wavy blond hair and a shocked expression. Standing with his hands clutching the railing so tightly that his knuckles had turned white was Francis, looking at the scene that had invaded his home, his face aghast. With his father being a military official, this had been the closest he had ever come to combat.

"_Was ist los? Wer sind Sie?_" he demanded again, trying to create an illusion of authority in midst of the chaos in switching to German. When no one moved, he yelled at them again. "_Was machen Sie hier? Wissen Sie eigentlich, wessen Haus das ist?"_

Cheeks burning, the commander took a step forward, bowing his head. "_Wir sind nur auf der Suche, Sir_," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. Francis wasn't satisfied, though, and glared at him. "_Eine Suche bei meinen Mitarbeitern und ohne meine Erlaubnis oder die meines Vaters? Was gibt Ihnen das Recht dazu?_"

Gaining the confidence, he climbed down the stairs, posture that of one self-assured and aware of the power he held. "_Wenn Sie nichts dagegen haben, gehen Sie bitte, bevor ich Sie wegen-"_

Freezing in his place, Francis had seemed to have gotten sight of the full scene. Wide-eyed, complexion paling, the Frenchman pointed at the armed soldiers. "_Menacer mon personnel? Comment osez-vous! Lâchez lui à la fois!_" he commanded shrilly, forgetting to use his German, finger shaking slightly. The men quickly lowered their guns and stepped back, heads bowed in shame.

After some more shouting and colorful swearing, the brigade left quickly, leaving not a trace but a group of frightened servants, who hurried away from the room as quick as they could. Cecile, eyes red from the crying, had rushed to Arthur and buried her head in his shirt once more, hugging him and thanking him profusely for standing up for her. The Englishman blushed at the compliments showered on him, brushing them off with a stiff nod of acknowledgement. No one had heard the soldier's snide remark about using 'his' girl, of which Arthur was glad. While Cecile didn't belong to him in any form, he cared a lot for the French cook. She was a sister to him, an anchor in the remote world.

Looking at them from the side was Francis, eyes slightly narrowed at the sight of the two of them together, not approving. Raising his eyes, the Englishman caught the other's gaze, who nodded at him curtly. "_Cécile, s'il vous plaît laissez-nous. Je veux avoir un mot avec monsieur Kirkland._"

The girl blushed and pulled away from Arthur, realizing how it might have looked. Giving the Englishman one last grateful smile and a polite curtsey to Francis, she scurried out of the room, leaving behind her two men with a heavy veil of awkwardness shrouded over them.

Cheeks reddening slightly as well, it was Francis who broke the silence, clearing his throat. "Are… are you okay? Did the men hurt you?"

Taken aback, Arthur blinked and nodded hesitantly. "Yes, I'm fine." He caught the Frenchman's gaze lingering on his bruised neck. "Oh, that's nothing. I'm alright, really." Nodding, the Frenchman managed a smile, though his eyes still lingered on the blue mark. "Good."

Another silence, both avoiding the other's gaze. From enemies to acquaintances to whatever they were now, Arthur found himself bemused. Why did Francis care to ask after his well-being? He was a servant after all- a hated one at that. Nevertheless, he deserved being thanked. If it wasn't for him, he would have been taken away. Or possibly worse.

"T-thank you," the Englishman stuttered, face turning scarlet and hand running through his choppy blond locks, "for helping me there."

Just, if not more, embarrassed by the expression of gratitude, Francis nodded his head hesitantly. "You're welcome." Looking slightly relieved, perhaps even satisfied, he turned to go, flashing Arthur a bright smile, "see you around."

Watching the Frenchman go, Arthur found himself smiling back. "Yeah."

But what was that pang he felt when the other turned to leave? When he was awarded that smile?

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_Finally! This is done! Ce'st fini! *lets out relieved sigh* I mean, seriously. This took too long, and it didn't produce much ._. Same old, when it comes to excuses and apologies: high school is busy busy busy *huff* So, to save time, I shall divide this corner to three parts. First, some comments about this chapter._

_-I hope you liked the drama :D I'm not sure if I did it justice, but eh. Not much to say, actually XD This is a very important point in their relationship. To be frank, I could have started the story from here, rather than before. Everything else was more of a background *evil smirk* Now things are going to get interesting, if I manage to read it. My only motivation really is reviews, sadly enough (I love the story, but I lost the initial fire T^T), so please help me out? ^^' Now, personal replies to your lovely reviews *beams* I really loved them, really. They made my day, in all seriousness *hugs*_

_***FrUkisLove- **Two reviews in succession? I love you ;A; I'm so glad you liked the chapters and the story so far! As a fan of the historical period in which the plot occurs as well, I'll try to do it justice with the resources I have ^^ And yes, roses are the love *squeals* To answer your question- yes, a key character that has yet to appear in the story so far is a Hetalia character. Not saying who, yet. I'm not stopping you from guessing, though ;3 ...Ohmaigod. Fanart? o.o ... *faints* It's my dream, actually, that someone would draw a scene from a fic of mine XD If you ever did, I'd be eternally in your debt *bows*_

_***Fishandpotatoes- ***blush* W-why, thank you. Your review really does mean a lot to me :) I'm certainly glad that you voiced your opinion and your existence XD How did you like this chapter?_

_***Marinoa- **XD Yes, it's you. Keep those fanmixes coming! I need some new music on my mp4 *grin* As for your answers. Francis and roses; close, but not quite XD The Nazis adored culture and refinement- beauty. Which is why they would like flowers, I think. I would find it ironic if Francis felt sorry for a mere flower torn, but not be moved by the death of a fellow human being. And yes! To all those that answered that Francis acted like a psycho since he wanted to see that expression on Arthur's face again, you were right! COOKIES TO YOU ALL!_

_***YourFloatingAngel**- I hope you liked this update, then! =w=' Is it interesting enough? *grins* Tell me what you think!_

_***CisLovesMatt-** I still can't get over you reviewing my writing owo' Thank you! While your second guess was wrong (but, I never thought of it that way. Interesting!), the one with Arthur's expression was right. And as you said, Francis didn't exactly get what he was looking for, as the Brit would have hardly had the same expression as before *snicker* _

_And now, last but not least...TRANSLATIONS~!_

_German **(thank you to MelodyOfStarshine for the corrected German translations! :D)**:_

_Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?= How may I help you?_

_W-was wollen Sie?= W-what do you want?_

_Dies ist eine geplante Suchaktion nach Feinden des Staates...und nichts anderes. Diejenigen, die dem Staat treu ergeben sind, haben nichts zu befürchten. = This is a scheduled search for enemies of the state...nothing more. Those who are loyal have nothing to fear._

_Du, Miststüc! = You, bitch!  
_

_Willst du mich etwa schlagen?= Going to hit me?_

_Warum tust du mir nicht weh? Nicht stark genug?= What, you can't hurt me? Not strong enough?_

___Du weißt, dass das Mädchen nicht sterben muss. Es gibt viele Dinge, die sie für uns tun könnte ... wenn du verstehst, was ich meine. _= You know, your girl doesn't have to die. There are plenty of things she could do for us…if you get my drift

_Was ist los? Wer sind Sie?= What's happening? Who are you?_

___Was machen Sie hier? Wissen Sie eigentlich, wessen Haus das ist?_= What are you doing here? Do you know who's home this is?

___Wir sind nur auf der Suche, Sir _= Just searching, sir.

___Eine Suche bei meinen Mitarbeitern und ohne meine Erlaubnis oder die meines Vaters? Was gibt Ihnen das Recht dazu? _= Searching within my staff without my or my father's permission? What gives you the right?

___Wenn Sie nichts dagegen haben, gehen Sie bitte, bevor ich Sie wegen-_ = If you don't mind, please leave now before I complain of-

_French:_

_Qu'est-ce qui se passe ici?= What is going on here?_

_Menacer mon personnel? Comment osez-vous! Lâchez lui à la fois!= Threatening my staff? How dare you! Unhand him at once!_

_Cécile, s'il vous plaît laissez-nous. Je veux avoir un mot avec monsieur Kirkland. = Cecile, please leave us. I want to have a word with Mr. Kirkland._

_...Done with translations XP Gah, I hate German... *sob* It's a scary language. Well, Hebrew isn't that much different, but so what? *in denial* ...Yeah. So please don't forget to review! *crosses fingers*_


	7. Sixth

Your Name

**~o~**

Chapter 6

* * *

The silence and somber atmosphere greeted the Frenchman as he opened the oak door, wincing at the scrapping sound the heavy wood made against the stone floor. It was an unnatural, disconcerting noise that announced Francis's arrival to the apparently empty chapel. He entered the building somewhat timidly, pressing the door close as quietly as it would. Loud grievances did not belong in a holy sanctuary.

Normally, the Bonnefoy chapel was full of troubled and praying servants or guests, paying their respects in the building famed for its glorious whitewashed walls and admirable compact structure. Located on the grounds of the mansion, behind the flowerbeds, the sun would shine beautifully through the stain glass windows, reliving miracles of the past. Visitors were able to pray privately while enjoying God's gift to man in form of nature and human creativity. Morals depicted both angel and saints performing their miracles.

Treading down the velvet carpet, Francis passed St. Matthew reforming from his life of corruption. Mary Magdalene, in the frame above, sobbed at the Virgin's deathbed. The young Frenchman paused at the end of the isle, dropping to his knees without hesitation in front of the alter. Bowing his head, he crossed himself, murmuring the customary "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti amen ", his voice barely over a whisper. He then clasped his hands together, holding them devoutly in front of his chest. A thin veil of blond hair hid his face in the darkened room. None of the candles were lit, and the chilled evening air settled down on his shoulders like a transparent shroud. Francis suppressed a shiver, stiffening his upper lip.

It was a week before Christmas, and the mansion was practically empty. Preparations for the holiday had been done quickly and finished early, so his father had sent most of the staff home for their annual vacation. On most years, many of them chose to spend their holiday in the Bonnefoy household, with the promise of a rich meal and merry company compelling as any. But this year, fear hung in the air and the tension was unbearable. After the spontaneous raid by the Gestapo, the spell of security was broken. If a general's house wasn't safe to live in freely, nowhere was safe. Might as well spend one's time with loved ones, if all families were under suspicion.

So as the early morning dew settled, the house was live with activity and last minute packing for the mass exoduses. By late afternoon, the bustling had stopped, an eerie silence replacing it and enveloping the grounds.

It was only then that Francis realized how dependant he was on his staff, relying on them for company as well as service. Being home schooled, he hadn't much opportunity nor experience with his peers. The busy household always seemed enough and made up for what he now diagnosed as loneliness and lack of social life. They gave him the choice of communication, and it was his own decision to remain stoic and isolated in his room. Now that they were gone- even if just for a short while- the variety of options were gone. Instead of having the freedom of choice, Francis was forced to be alone rather than choose solitude himself.

"Ô Divin Médecin, toi qui as toujours aimé consoler et guérir les malades de corps et d'esprit, accorde-elle la patience d'endurer son souffrances," Francis whispered, eyes fluttering shut while concentrating on the words. He felt so small, his will so unimportant in the overall plan. God's plan. Hitler's plan. He obviously knew more than he did, and deserved salvation if anyone did. The mighty lord would support him in his quest to purify the world, aid him in his conquest. Aid him in ridding the country of vermin and impure soldiers such as those who raided the Bonnefoy mansion.

Yet, even with a soul as impure as his own, he had come to beg the lord for mercy on his mother. Every Christmas, the memory of the blond angel that haunted his childhood would be revived, and the pain would renew. It was at that period of the year that Francis had the most memories of her, and as much as it hurt, a small smile would spread as he pondered the image of the fragile woman seated in the parlor, sipping tea and reading, glancing at her son playing at her feet on the floor. There had been love in her eyes- affection he hadn't seen ever since.

Taking in a long intake of breath, Francis squeezed his eyes tight so that he could see colors dancing in midst of the darkness, "Par ta Puissance, soulage l'acuité de son douleur et de son fatigue, mais surtout, doux Jésus, guéris les plaies de son âme."

Perhaps his prayers helped her, wherever she was. Maybe they brought her peace.

Tears fell down his cheeks, staining a damp trail in their wake. It was only then that the young Frenchman dared to open his eyes, gazing at the crucifix steadily, lips barely moving. "Bien qu'il soit difficile de prier, je dirai à jamais : Que ta volonté soit faite."

_Sigh._

Francis snapped his head to the side, looking in the direction of which the sound came from. Who else was there?

His quick scan of the area bore no fruit, and Francis slowly turned back, closing his eyes with a small sigh of his own. Perhaps he was only imagining things, his mind playing tricks on him. After a few moments of reflection, though his stance had stiffened considerably, he crossed himself once more, rising to his feet. Turning around, Francis headed towards the door once more, intending on leaving and returning to the privacy of his own room.

He paused for a moment beside the portrait of a young woman sitting tensely in a field, the archangel Michael whispering in her ear. A woman who would save France one day and sacrifice her life for her country. One that would become a saint and prayed to by all. Where did she attain the courage, Francis asked himself time after time walking by the painting. How was she so willing to give her life for a cause she believed in?

Francis still didn't know.

Continuing down the isle, he reached the oaken doors, opening one and bracing himself against the cold wind. The Frenchman turned his head once more, surveying the empty chapel before nodding in satisfaction to himself and closing the door behind him.

He thought he had seen a flash of green, but it was probably a trick of light.

_**...**_

His back pressed to the stone wall; Arthur sank to the cold floor, head gazing at the painted ceiling. Lithe fingers wrapped themselves around a wooden cross nestled against their owner's chest.

The Englishman was rendered silent, stunned by the scene that had unfolded in front of his eyes. He had never thought following the young master would lead him to the chapel, much the less expose him to a private prayer. While he didn't understand the French, Arthur recognized the pain and the sorrow. What had triggered the spiel? What made Francis Bonnefoy cry?

He was one of the few people who stayed behind for Christmas. It wasn't like he had anywhere to return to, like Cecile. She had approached him the day before, smiling shyly with a heavy blush tainting her cheeks, inviting Arthur to her house for the holiday. As much as the offer touched him, the Englishman had to refuse, protesting that he didn't want to intrude on private family time.

So there he was, trying to keep to himself as best as he could manage and hoping no one would notice him too much. It was best to lay low in situations like those- not to attract too much attention. Yet his instincts and curiosity worked against him by pushing the Brit forward, following Francis through the garden beds. What compelled him to creep in after the other and hide behind a column, to observe the young Frenchman in such an intimate moment? For sure, Arthur didn't know.

All he did know, though, was that whatever beauty the moment held, he had ruined it with his compassionate sigh. It had just come so naturally that Arthur hadn't thought to suppress it. Only after uttering it that he had noticed his mistake and cursed himself silently, determent not to draw any more attention to himself. Yet it wasn't the same, and very soon after Francis stood up and left, unknowingly leaving Arthur behind.

Now that he was alone, the Englishman had time to reflect on what he had previously witnessed. The stoic Francis had cried, for one. He seemed so passionate yet timid in whatever it was he said, rather prayed, for. And he looked so vulnerable while saying it that Arthur had the sudden urge to go and envelope the other in a warm and comforting embrace.

Whatever happened to the mutual hatred they were supposed to have?

Ever since that awkward moment in the other's room, and now especially after Francis's interference with the Gestapo for Arthur's sake, the young Brit didn't know what to make of their relationship. Whenever they crossed paths, one would mutter a low greeting and the other would reply with just as much enthusiasm. The dislike seemed to have faded somewhat, but Arthur found himself missing the days in which his feelings were obvious. Now, they were all addled and made no sense at all.

The revealing of Francis's weak side didn't help with his resolve to ignore the Frenchman as much as he could. Curiosity if not compassion motivated Arthur to investigate the strange occurrence.

Standing up, he wiped a tear away- when had he been crying?- and exited the building, sure that no one saw him leave. He quickly headed to the flower gardens, long covered with a thin layer of frost. Humming quietly to himself, Arthur followed the path, heading towards the main house.

"Volviendo de alguna parte, Arthur?"

Stiffening, the Englishman whirled around, heart stopping for a moment. Behind him stood Antonio, cheeks red from either cold or excitement. Probably both. He was sneering at the other, proud of himself to have caught Arthur. "¿Dónde estabas?" he questioned the other, a smug smile curving his lips.

"I-I have no bloody clue what you're saying," Arthur stuttered, face paling and lip quivering. If anyone found out what he had done, his job would be lost for sure. Why was Antonio there, in any case? Why wasn't he home?

He turned around and hurried back, ignoring when the Spaniard called after him. He couldn't afford to get into more trouble.

Something was already not feeling quite right.

* * *

Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;

*waves* Hullo, everyone! I hoped you enjoyed the chapter! :D I liked writing it, in any case. The church always seemed so interesting, and there is something romantic in praying, really. Especially from devoutness. I had to ask my Christian friends how a Catholic prays, since God knows I know not, and I kinda killed their minds with my questions XD So, thanks a tons, Zoe and Katie. Sorry for bothering you~

Now, about the chapter. There are some very important sentences there (I advise you to go and read the Joan of Arc paragraph again, since there will be references to it later on), and I absolutely loved incorporating famous pictures into the chapter. The first picture of St. Matthew is The Calling of Saint Matthew by Caravaggio. The second one with Mary Magdalene is Death of the Virgin, by the same painter. Joan of Arc and the archangel Michael by Eugene Thirion *grin* I recommend looking them up- they are all truly masterpieces.

Thank you all for your reviews! And yes, lilyrose225- your review was much appreciated and sufficed XD I'd love another one, if you can manage ;P Just kidding. I'm very thankful for every review I get, and all I can do is hope I get some. Every one really makes my day, as you all probably experience yourself ^^

Before translations (not so many this time! OWO), I'd just like to notify you that hopefully by the next chapter, I'll be able to share with you a link to a fanart of this fanfic by CisLovesMatt! :DD I was so ecstatic when I heard that someone bothered to draw out a scene from something I wrote, that my friends looked at me weird the rest of the day XD I want to thank you publicly, love, and good luck with your computer! People like you appear once in a blue moon *hearts*

If anyone else wants to draw something, go right ahead. Just tell me first, okay? ^^

Translations~

**Latin**:

_In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti amen_.= In the name of the father, and the son and the holy ghost, amen.

**French:**

_Ô Divin Médecin, toi qui as toujours aimé consoler et guérir les malades de corps et d'esprit, accorde-elle la patience d'endurer son souffrances.= _O Divine Physician, you who have always loved to console and heal the sick in body andmind, give her the patience to endure her suffering.

_Par ta Puissance, soulage l'acuité de son douleur et de son fatigue, mais surtout, doux Jésus, guéris les plaies de son âme.= _By your power, relieve the acuteness of her pain and her fatigue, but most importantly, sweet Jesus, heal the wounds of her soul.

_Bien qu'il soit difficile de prier, je dirai à jamais : Que ta volonté soit faite.= _Although it is difficult to pray, I will for ever: Thy will be done.

(*Note: This prayer is an actual prayer, btw. I didn't make it up :] )

**Spanish:**

_Volviendo de alguna parte, Arthur?= _Returning from somewhere, Arthur?

_¿Dónde estabas?= _Where were you?


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